"Seventeen."
"Twelve."
"Here. Come back with me."
They obeyed. The Italian folded the coat neatly, tied it carefully, stroked the parcel tenderly, and with a meek yet sad smile handed it to Buttons.
"There--only sixteen piastres."
Buttons had taken out his purse. At this he hurriedly replaced it, with an air of vexation.
"I can only give twelve."
"Oh, Signore, be generous. Think of my struggles, my expenses, my family. You will not force me to lose."
"I would scorn to force you to any thing, and therefore I will depart."
"Stop, Signore," cried the Italian, detaining them at the door. "I consent. You may take it for fourteen."